


In Spades

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Romance, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, douglas angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when you see someone you want, standing right there, so flawless and beautiful, and you know you can't have them? The same thing Douglas Richardson does when he sees Martin. Nothing. Until of course, something does happen. </p>
<p>Based on a prompt on the meme- <i>From Martin's first day with MJN, he and Douglas have felt instant attraction towards each other. Since Douglas is married and he's not a man who'd cheat on his wife, they don't do anything about it and try to ignore it. However, the pull is so strong that they can't help themselves sometimes, and they end up caressing each other's hands in the flight deck, or having intense cuddles whenever they're forced to share a room during a layover, not to mention the hugs goodbye. But they don't kiss, don't touch any naughty places or do anything overtly sexual.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>One day something happens... </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the brilliant excellente, who's just amazing in every way. I'm aware this is the first thing I've written in a while so forgive me if I'm rusty. Saying that, comments and thoughts are worth gold. <3

**In Spades**

 

The airfield is empty. Deserted save the presence of a crow cawing loudly before fleeing. It’s not surprising, considering how low the sky hangs today, the greying clouds stretched over the blue like a thunderous blanket. It’s still early.

Douglas sits in his Lexus for a moment, the engine humming faintly under his feet before he twists the keys and flicks it off. His fingers are tapping against the leather of the steering wheel, nonsense hardly worth a beat, and he soon gives up, sighing heavily and climbing out of the car. The wind smacks him full in the face, bitingly sharp and he winces, tugging his coat tighter around himself and grabbing his overnight bag for the long haul ahead.

The door slams and he trudges on, the tarmac wet and slippery with rain, his cheeks tightening with the cold. Unsurprisingly, the portakabin’s locked, neither Carolyn nor Martin have arrived yet. Though he doesn’t expect any different, not this time. Instead, he drops to one knee and reaches under a large, unremarkable looking stone Arthur had placed there, grabbing the small silver key and wrapping it in his chilly fingers.

The room is freezing, frigid as he steps in and shuts the door, the key clanging as he tosses it onto the makeshift counter they’d pushed into the corner of the room not long ago. He flicks the lights on and it buzzes above him as the room is washed white, his eyes burning from the sudden shift. It’s still dark outside, winter losing the gift of cheer summer had. Though in a way, he thinks as he shrugs off his coat and fills the kettle, it’s cosy. Comforting perhaps, being wrapped up in shelter, warming your chilly nose as the nights draw on into a late morning. He’s always preferred winter, hot tea in bed whilst wrapped around the wife, creating their own little furnace under the duvet.

Of course he doesn’t expect that now, he muses bitterly as the kettle rumbles softly, faintly recalling the shadows on Helena’s back as she turns from him in her sleep. He’d promptly flip over in retaliation and watch the clock tick by, his feet frozen, the bed feeling like a block of ice.

There is of course the possibility that he’s exaggerating, that the cracks in his marriage are nothing and he’s being too lackadaisical about it all. Perhaps he’s so used to failure, the crumbles in the vows they once so lovingly uttered, that he’s set himself up for the inevitable.

Douglas is suddenly snapped out of his thoughts when the kettle thunders into a trembling roar, steam rising from its mouth before it flicks off and calms down. He grabs a tea bag and spoons in the sugar, tipping in the hot water and watching as the bag floats and stains.

There’s a shift in the air and he looks up, just catching the crunch of tires over tarmac, a vehicle pulling up just outside the portakabin. He assumes it’s either Carolyn or Martin, and peeks out the window, spotting the white transit in park, the flash of ginger as Martin turns the engine off and climbs out.

He doesn’t realise he’s staring. Not for a minute at least, stirring his tea absentmindedly, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic as he listens for Martin’s steps, and watches the man’s skin flush under the sudden chill. Martin pauses, catching sight of Douglas’ lexus and stares at it for a moment, his eyes curiously impassive. It’s mildly disconcerting, Douglas thinks, watching the pale fingers skim the bonnet gently, idly staring at his Captain like this. He’s registered he’s doing it, yet without the faintest idea of how to stop, or even to pause to consider that his tea needs milk.

Soon enough however, Martin enters.

“Morning Douglas.” A gust of wind blows a piece of paper from the desk. “You’re early.” Martin’s hair is darker today, damp perhaps from the morning mist, or the shower. Douglas finally stops stirring his tea. 

“I am,” he replies bluntly. “Am I not supposed to be?”

Martin shrugs and walks in, shutting the door softly behind him. He’s wearing a rather beaten coat, wrapped tightly around his wiry frame, a fraying scarf tucked snugly around his neck. His skin blotches pink from the heat, small flecks of red appearing just under his chin and Douglas finds himself glancing at it briefly. 

“Well no, it’s just that it’s new. To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

He smiles.

It’s a simple enough question, rhetorical perhaps. And yet, he finds himself momentarily uncertain, wrong footed by the sudden thought. Why indeed? He woke up this morning, blinking blearily at the dark ceiling, the covers twisted around his legs. The shadow of his podge just shields them from view when he looks down, the inevitable effects of age finally sinking its claws deep. His bones ache, creaking as he peels his clammy body away from the sheet and turns onto his side, to see Helena’s back, and that delicious curve that dips of delicately at her waist.

He wonders why he did it, why he even bothered. Perhaps it was one of his futile attempts to keep the fires going, to prove that this marriage wasn’t going to end like the others. Although to be fair to the both of them, it wasn’t heading that way just yet. Nothing had been broken or shouted thus far, and he considered that an achievement if nothing else.

He reached over, hovering just a breadth away from Helena, before leaning down and placing the lightest kiss to the dip where her waist bowed inward. And then another, and then another until he had reached the softest expanse of skin just at her neck.

“Good morning,” he rumbled, fingers skating just over her arm. He could feel his stomach grumbling, perhaps more out of hunger than any stoking flames of desire. At least he was trying though.

“Not now Dougy, go back to bed.”

Just like that. Just like that it was over. The flames died and he stared deadpanned at his wife before sighing and turning away, glancing briefly at the clock. 5:00am.

“Even better, I’ll go to work.”

And he did. He got up and left for the airfield, feeling both tired and bitingly cold. 

“Douglas?” Martin’s looking at him, lips tilted into a perplexed frown. “You alright?”

He blinks, startled momentarily by the shock back into his own thoughts. “Yes...” he says, looking at his tea, which still needs milk. “Yes, I’m fine. When’s Carolyn coming?”

Martin shrugs off his coat, unwinding the scarf from his pale neck and Douglas watches, noting the subtle shift in colour as the warmth hits his skin. He turns away, fishing for the small pint of milk. “Soon I’d think. I’m always here first.”

“Hmm... I gathered.” The milk splashes gently, and his spoon clinks against the sides before clattering onto the counter. Silence settles, the awkward kind, lingering hopelessly for a moment as he tries to gather his thoughts, the image of Helena’s back coming to mind, so cold and dark in comparison to the ruddy flush across Martin’s neck.

Martin shuffles forward and is suddenly beside him, their shoes bumping, elbows knocking. He reaches over for a mug and Douglas passes it to him, trying to remember how many sugars he takes.

“How’s Helena? Martin asks finally, the kettle rumbling softly as he flicks it on. “Good weekend?” His eyes are startlingly bright, Douglas thinks as he glances down at the man. Grey today, the irises flecked with green. Helena’s were blue, the colour of duck’s eggs.

“Helena?” He states, considering the question. _Yes, how is she?_ What a question, he muses, looking down at his tea, feeling inexplicably tired. _I don’t know._

“She’s fine.” Douglas sips at his tea, watching martin spoon the coffee granules into his mug. “Perfect. And didn’t get up to much I’m afraid. Had a quiet one.”

Martin smiles gently. “Sounds good. Relaxing.”

Douglas hums in acknowledgment. “And yourself? Can I assume you did something spectacular?”

“Not really,” Martin replies solemnly. “Three wardrobes and a shelving unit.”

Douglas whistles. “That’s rather a lot.” 

Martin smiles ruefully, reaching up to knead at his shoulder, his knuckles cracking. His shirt crumples under his fingers, creasing beneath his hand and before he realises, Douglas is reaching up, plucking the hand away and smothering the wrinkles down. He can feel Martin’s eyes on him, watching silently and he’s suddenly overcome with a sense of embarrassment, tugging his own arm back and attempting to smirk, trying, albeit rather bleakly, to save some modicum of face.

“Well...” he starts, casually enough. “Sir doesn’t want to ruin his crisp sense of professionalism does he? How else will anyone take him seriously if he has a crease in his uniform?”

It’s weak, terribly so and they both know it. Martin watches him, eyes honed perfectly to Douglas’ face, sea green eyes flaring gently before he turns away and shakes his head, a small smile quirking in the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t think you’ll ever stop, will you?” He sighs and rolls his eyes, stirring the grainy coffee and adding a splash of milk. Douglas watches the milk seep in, the dark shrinking grains of coffee floating to the top.

“Where would the fun in that be?”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Martin retorts, grinning a little before his expression crumples and he reaches up to his shoulder again.

Douglas arches an eyebrow, watching the man tug at his shoulder. “Is it really that bad?”

“No, not really.” Martin shakes his head. “It’s not excruciating, just bloody uncomfortable. Must have pulled it.” His lips twist, brow furrowing and Douglas has to look away, yawning as he stares at the door, waiting for it to open and Carolyn to swing in.

It’s not awkward with Martin, far be it. Perhaps uncomfortable in the simple fact that since meeting the man, Douglas has found himself becoming curiously attentive to his whims, or the Captain’s appearance. From an avid dislike upon their first meeting, strolling into the cabin to greet a rather scrawny, bright eyed chap claiming to be his superior, to casual banter bordering a simple aesthetic attraction. Douglas is after all not too proud to not admit he doesn’t appreciate some of the ineffable aesthetic charms from the same sex.

Of course, he thinks, as he remembers Helena’s hair fanned out across the pillow, he’s never considered himself anything other than a red blooded, heterosexual man. Things are easier that way, more comfortable and he was perfectly content to stay that way till the last day.

Until of course he met Martin.

It’s nothing bad. It’s not awful that he’s somehow found himself lingering upon the man’s slender fingers, or the sinews in his neck. He considers it an artistic expression of affection. Martin is still as irritating as the day Carolyn considered it fit to hire the man, and both pilots seem to relish some form of banter, be it bordering on teasing or not, so no, Douglas doesn’t find it worrying that he’s watching Martin’s fingers meld into his shoulder, or spotting the soft contrasts in colour on his pale skin.

No. What he find worrying is that Martin seems to notice. And yet not call him out on it. Unease perhaps? The discomfort in addressing something so delicate in a risk of damaging an already skewed form of friendship? Perhaps.

But as Martin drops his hand, and reaches for his coffee, their eyes meet. And there’s no discomfort there.

And _that_ is what’s worrying.

“Morning minions!” The door slams open and they both jump, startled. Douglas’ tea slops over his fingers, Carolyn watching with a bemused expression. “Are my eyes deceiving me? Or has my indolent first officer finally made it to work on time?”

“Indolent Carolyn? I must admit I pride myself on being one cool cat, but indolent’s probably a bit harsh.” He shakes his fingers off, accepting the tissue Martin passes to him.

“Indolent perfectly describes you Douglas. It was quite the shock seeing you so early, I thought for a moment there that hell had frozen over and we were in it.”

“Yes, yes very good,” Douglas mutters. “Are you quite done?”

Carolyn smiles waspishly and says nothing, watching as Arthur bounces through, fashioned in a matching hat, gloves, scarf and ear muffs.

“Morning chaps! Lovely weather isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is Arthur,” Douglas quips, amused. “Although I don’t think it warrants dressing as if you’re at the North Pole.”

Arthur shucks his gloves, smiling. “But they match! And makes you feel all cosy and warm, it’s brilliant!”

It’s another standstill, Carolyn explains. The esteemed passenger, a blustering, stout, red faced man by the name of Hughes, had called explaining his tardiness, and that as a result, MJN would benefit from a compensating bonus. Carolyn smiles sharkishly, and Douglas stares at those teeth, wondering how much charm the woman used to have Hughes, the poor sod, wrapped around her finger so snugly.

He digs out his book, a battered Mark Billingham novel he picked up from a charity shop the other day, and flicks through the yellowing pages disinterestedly, his ankle bobbing slightly on his knee. His phone vibrates and he fishes it out from his pocket, swiping the lock and squinting down at the device.

_**1 Message.** From: Helena_

He stares at it for a moment, idly wondering whether it was worth reading and replying, or if a bigger statement would be made if he ignores it altogether, just as she had done this morning. Such pettiness however required effort, and Douglas was, for once, exhausted with it all.

He opens it.

_Are you home for dinner?_

He assumes yes, as they are on standstill. Helena would’ve known that, he hadn’t specifically told her whether or not he was away for the night. Saying that, she still asked, and it left him wondering whether or not she was thinking about him, or if she had already made plans for herself, which wouldn’t have been surprising, and was checking if anything could mar them.

With this in mind, feeling rather ticked off at the thought of being an afterthought, he decides to humour her.

_Only if you’re on the menu._

He pauses, trying to work out which smiley icon would be best in this situation.

_;)_

_**Send.** _

He puts the phone down, smirking a little, before it vibrates again. He’s never been used to texting, preferring the old fashioned, dying method of phoning. Helena however had always a knack for messaging instead, her manicured fingers tap-taping away on the smooth screen of her i-phone.

_You are silly aren’t you? Naughty man!_

_**Reply.** _

_Hmm... I’m thinking of dessert, you, chocolate and the left-over cream in the fridge._

_**Send.** _

“You alright Douglas?”

His attention snaps suddenly, jolted back into the present. He turns, to see Martin watching, his eyes soft, lips twitching into something neither a frown, nor a smile.

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you were alright,” he replies, eyes darting to the phone as if he knows. And suddenly, Douglas is overwhelmed by an inexpressible sense of guilt. He looks at Martin, their eyes catching, and the image of Helena spread eagled on their bed, covered in syrupy chocolate and cream is caught in flames. He sees Martin, sees himself running his fingers over that neck, up his cheek and into those flame coloured curls.

“I’m fine...” Douglas replies soundly. “Texting the wife.”

_The wife._

Martin’s mouth forms an O, and acknowledgment in his eyes and he turns away, back to his log books, as if nothing had happened.

Douglas stares at that back, the plains of the shoulder jutting out ever so slightly beneath the white shirt before turning back to his phone, seeing that he has another message. He hesitates to open it this time, but does so anyway, putting Martin out of his mind.

_Sounds delightful. I was thinking of ordering in, if you were coming home. If not, I was going to go out with girls at the tai-chi class._

And there it is. The reason at last. Douglas doesn’t know why he feels the twinge of disappointment curdling in his stomach, it comes as no surprise that Helena in fact, does not want him home. It’s very sly, he thinks with a very distant amount of amusement, turning the tables so he will feel guilty if she has to cancel going out. Classic manoeuvre and yet, he failed to see it coming.

He sighs and replies.

_Well we’re on standby, so it might be a late one. Go and enjoy yourself darling._

_**Send.** _

The phone chinks slightly as he sets it down with definitive thump, ignoring the last vibration it gives. Another night alone, reduced to re-runs of QI, leftovers and a quick, perfunctory wank in bed. He rests his elbow on the table, balancing his head on it as he crosses between a mixture of childish petulance, irritation and subdued loneliness. The latter is something he doesn’t like acknowledging however, and he puts it out of his mind, distracting himself with the annoyance he feels towards Helena at the moment.

“What’s the matter with you? You’re looking awfully sour all of a sudden,” Carolyn muses, peering up at him over her glasses. He grumbles in response.

“Perfectly fine Carolyn, don’t stress yourself over concern for me. It’s sorely misplaced.”

Carolyn turns back to her paperwork. “Not concern Douglas, merely an observation. We both know how I get off on your misery.”

He catches Martin pausing, listening as his pen halts in its scratching over the log books. Something twinges in Douglas’ chest for a moment and he realises that that irritable feeling of loneliness he locked away so firmly, is stronger than he originally perceived.

“What’re you doing tonight Martin?” He blurts suddenly, mind blank, chest tightening. Martin looks up, startled slightly with the admission.

“Pardon?”

“Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Douglas,” Carolyn warns. “You know how I feel about workplace relationships.”

“Oh shush you, before I bring up your so called moral ethics towards everything else in this workplace, including you’re sordid relationship with a Mr Shipwright.” He grins, watching was she raises an eyebrow, unamused. He so does love teasing her about Herc.

“You’re just jealous.”

“About what, pray tell?”

“That Herc chose me instead.” She smiles sweetly. “We all know how you felt toward the man and your bromance.”

Douglas frowns. “What on earth is a bromance?”

“Oh they’re brilliant Douglas!” Arthur beams. “It’s basically when two guys are best friends, so much that people think they could be in love. Bit like you and Martin.”

“What? We don’t have a bromance!” Martin splutters, suddenly going red. “Far from it actually!”

“And yet,” Carolyn quips. “Douglas was asking if you were free tonight? What’s that if not love?”

Douglas suddenly feels as if they’re treading on dangerous territory and cuts in. “If,” he states. “I can get back to Martin _without_ -” he glares at Carolyn. “-your input, I was going to ask if you’d like to grab some dinner. I was then going to ask if Carolyn and Arthur would like to tag along but I don’t think I will now.”

Carolyn narrows her eyes at him, huffing slightly. “Wouldn’t have come anyway, plans with Herc.”

“And I’m babysitting Snoopadoop,” Arthur replies. “So sorry Douglas, maybe another time.”

Douglas smiles at him. “Another time would be grand.” He turns back to Martin, who’s looking a cross between bewildered and vaguely perplexed. “So, dinner tonight? I’ve nothing planned and don’t really fancy Helena’s bastardisation of goulash.”

Martin looks at him, his expression curiously detached, hidden. “You sure?”

Something fizzles between them and he’s almost thankful for Carolyn’s and Arthur’s sudden disinterest in them. It’s private, a small strand of something so unfathomably delicate, it would have been a shame to display it so openly. He meets Martin’s eyes, smiling a little.

“Positive.”

Martin takes a moment to assess this before nodding. “Why not? What time...?”

Douglas reaches for his phone and when he unlocks it, sees the last message he received from Helena. With an odd sense of detachment, he opens it.

_Thank you baby, love you._

And exits. He looks at the time before turning to Martin. “How about seven?”

Martin grins. “Seven sounds great.”

And Douglas finds himself unable to do anything but smile back. 

****

A/N- Hope you've enjoyed it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late m'dear, had some problems with RL. But here it is and I hope you like it! <3

As seven ticks by, Douglas finds himself waiting in his Lexus, watching a magpie pluck idly at a splintered branch. And when it soars away, he remembers belatedly that he forgot to salute it, something his mother bleated whenever in sight of the lone bird. 

It prevents sorrow, he muses, watching the sky curdle blue to black. Well, it’s rather too late for that isn’t it?

Of course, he’s being melodramatic. Something about the moment and the vague sense of lost nostalgia calls for it, and he finds himself watching outside with glazed eyes, wondering just what had happened to him. These moments, these hushed little spaces in time where he can afford a little commonplace misanthropy are the only things that keep him from walking towards that metaphorical line he knows he cannot, and should not, cross. 

Here, in his car, in his expensive little indulgence, or toy as Helena likes to call it when neither are in the best of moods, he can sit. And he can allow himself to be just that little bit more cynical than usual; just that little bit more candid. 

Here, he can say, _I hate my wife._ Without remorse or consequence. 

Whether or not he means it is something else entirely, something he doesn’t want to bother contemplating yet. 

So he sits there, in his _toy_ , and waits for Martin. 

Not Helena. But Martin. 

And he thinks that there’s definitely something wrong with that. 

He looks out the window and stares at the road ahead, visible under the dull amber glow of the street lamps. The road’s cut away with potholes, empty cans of Fosters and broken glass littering the sides as the paint chips away and the tarmac wears thin. But ahead, he watches, ignoring the faint calls of foxes and the distant buzzing of chatter to stare at a rather beaten looking house, semi detached and worn. 

He sighs and thumbs at his lip. Martin’s late.

The house is really something else. Studenty, the staples of frugal living and dishevelment littering the patchy green just past the front door. Green wheely bins packed to the brim, the old pebble dashing grey and crumbling. Douglas sometimes wonders why Martin subjects himself to this, and if the skies were really worth it. He supposes for someone as blinkered as his Captain, it would be. Perhaps that’s unfair though, to place Martin within such a category when the reason behind his lifestyle seems justified enough. The dogged wonder of a man really is something to both squeamishly admire, and boggle at. 

_Daft man_. Douglas’ lips quirk as the thought crosses his mind. He does it to himself. 

Eventually his thoughts tail off into something a little less safe and he sighs, seeking another distraction. His phone comes out of his pocket and he slides a thumb across the smooth screen, watching as it lights up and greets him. A smiling picture of his daughter appears, doe eyed and golden under the summer sun. He can vaguely remember when he took that, sitting in the garden, feet up and sleeves rolled back as he watches his little girl flutter around, oblivious to the smear of ice cream at the corner of her mouth. She turns and presents him with a sticky grin, her smile toothy, hair tumbling from her bunches, squinting in the sun. And he can’t not snap it, can’t help himself as he’s overcome with the need to capture the image of such childish glee forever. 

It suddenly feels so warm, as if he was right there now, sitting under the gazebo, the august sunshine beating down on him as he sips at his lemonade. That sudden calm sense of nostalgia creeps on him, beckoning him to a happier time where things were, if not perfect, then tolerable. Perhaps even enjoyable. He remembers Helena being different, a relaxed, suppler version of what she is now. Then, he could touch her waist and feel her melt into his hands, as if she was supposed to fit there, as if she wanted him. And now-

Things weren’t overtly different. They were still the same. They touched and kissed and did everything they did before, what every couple did, married or not. And perhaps that’s the most tragic part, that they weren’t different. They were ordinary. Neither contented nor miserable. Caught in this stale, lethargic routine that would one day crack. 

He’d never been like this at the beginning. And neither had Helena. Perhaps something changed. Or perhaps this is just age running its course. 

There’s a sudden tap at the window and Douglas is startled out of his thoughts. He whips around and blinks at Martin, who’s smiling at him a little awkwardly. 

“Hello.” Douglas cranks the window down. “You’re unusually late.”

“God I’m sorry about that, bit of a crisis with the housemates.” Martin comes around the car and climbs in, sighing as his head hits the back of the leather seat. Douglas hears the thud of the door slamming and watches with unwavering attention as Martin’s body melds against the leather, his spine dipping just in toward the small of his back. Like he was meant to be there. 

Stop it, he tells himself after a second. _Stop it._

“Everything hunky dory then?” he finally asks as he puts the car into gear. His fingers clench around the wheel, biting into leather as he pulls out and burns down the road. He can just about suppress a smirk when he hears the telltale clink of Martin’s seatbelt clicking into place, and accelerates just that bit more.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one day in this death trap,” Martin grumbles, his fingers gripping into the seat. 

“Careful,” Douglas warns lightly. “You’ll damage the leather. And then I’ll have to pull it out of your pay check. Oh wait.” 

“Oh ha, ha you’re hilarious.” 

Douglas grins. “I know.”

“I just don’t see the point.” Martin looks around the car. “Nice enough but it’s essentially an expensive toy.”

_Toy._

Douglas could feel the fissure of Martin’s comment sear through the air and his spine cracked as he sat up, lips tightening. Toy? He though angrily. _They’re all alike aren’t they?_ In that moment Helena conjured beside Martin, both smirking knowingly at him as he stares on helplessly. 

“Douglas?” Martin looks at him, startled. Douglas realises he missed the rest of the drivel from his mouth and cranks out brittle smile. 

“Yes?” he asks too bright and too sharp. 

Martin frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The car swerves a corner before coming to a halt at a red light. “Why would anything be wrong?”

There’s a sigh and now Martin looks irritated. Not that he has any right to be, Douglas thinks. Officious little sod. “You’re upset I insulted your car aren’t you? Really.” He looks distinctly unimpressed. “Alright I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are,” Douglas says sweetly. “And I’d happily accept it with no reason to doubt otherwise if I didn’t think it was so ironically hilarious. You see, because out of everyone, I don’t think you’re in any position to criticise, what with your track record.”

They’re ushered forward when a car honks behind them, and Douglas takes the opportunity to steal a glance beside him. Martin looks impassive, peculiarly vacant as he stares ahead, chewing on a thumb nail, the skin worried raw.

“Look at the road.”

And he does so, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as silence settles between them. It’s not what he expected, if he’s entirely honest, and he can’t help but feel he hasn’t helped matters in the slightest. This misplaced sense of tension that lingers between them chokes them both, until it’s almost too awkward to even physically look at each other. Douglas finds himself both irritated and curiously nervous around Martin now, a combination of emotions he hasn’t had the displeasure of encountering before. 

_You invited him to dinner though!_ The thought crosses his mind with a sort of incensed bewilderment, as if that alone was supposed to explain it all. And it does, because Douglas doesn’t believe he has any reason to be so antsy around his captain, but yet he is. And as he looks at Martin, and sees those brows so nervously knitted together, he can’t help but feel he isn’t the only one on 

“What was the crisis?” The words escape before he even realises and it takes him a moment to recalibrate himself into the present. He tries to focus instead on the radio, tuning it to Radio 4. 

Martin’s looking at his hand. “Crisis?”

“The one with your housemates.”

“Oh that one.” 

Douglas feels his patience thinning, the threads snapping with a twang. “Well how many did you have?”

“No, it was just the one,” Martin replies blankly.”Nothing much, a bit of a romantic spat between two of the housemates.”

“And you’re playing cupid?” Douglas glances at him from the corner of his eye. He just about catches the sly eye roll, the smile wobbling as it resists. 

“Not exactly, more like a delegate. Worst game of Chinese whispers ever.”

He can’t help but laugh at that. It’s more of a reflex than anything, he thinks, as the giggles bubble up from his chest until he’s choking on his guffaws. Martin’s staring at him with wild eyes, caught between a mixture of confusion and amusement. He looks strangely bewildered, and Douglas catches it, the naive little twinkle in the man’s blue eyes wondering just what happened. It’s a charm, and he keeps it safe in mind. 

“Are you alright?” Martin eventually asks, voice bouncing a little. “You’re acting so strange today.”

Douglas pauses for a moment, and concentrates on pulling up into the car park of the restaurant they’ve finally arrived at. And once the Lexus quietens down, and they’re sitting there basking in the comfortable glow that’s settled between them, he finally answers. 

“You know what Martin,” he says, looking him squarely in the eye, feeling rather lightheaded from his moment of laughter. 

Martin’s eyes glint under the glare of street lamps, almost grey in the subtle light. Douglas grins. 

“I’ve never been better.” 

****

A/N- Hope you enjoyed and comments are gold. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's late but here it is, the next chapter. <3

They sit in a secluded little spot, far in the corner of the restaurant, a delicately clandestine affair Douglas notices, the irony not lost upon him. The walls are burgundy under the dim amber glow of the spotlights, candles flickering low in lamps as the windows steam and fog under the chilly November mist. And it’s all painfully romantic, perhaps dangerously so when he casts a quick glance toward Martin and sees him scrutinising closely, pensively. 

“Well,” he starts, rather awkwardly he’s ashamed to admit. “What does Sir think?” It’s a weak save, if nothing else, a gauche attempt in trying to brush off the foolish misdemeanour of having had himself caught within the idyllic trappings of romance. If that’s what it was. 

Douglas looks again and doesn’t know if it’s necessarily what he sees. It’s something apprehensive, perhaps even wistful, when he watches Martin, but nothing more than a dreamy sense of nostalgia. Pining for that feeling of tenderness he once felt for a loved one. 

Martin shrugs and Douglas is snapped out of his thought. “Wouldn’t know, haven’t tried the food yet. Looks lovely though.” He picks up the menu and thumbs through it, glancing at Douglas over the card. “How did you find it?”

He finds himself momentarily wrong footed when he pauses and remembers just how he came by the place. “Helena brought me here once,” he starts carefully, keeping his tone light when the memory surfaces, caught within a poignant mix of both affection and guilt. “On our... second, well _date_ if that’s what you’d call it.” He catches the irony of the statement a moment too late, and something between his eyes throb painfully. It was almost blasphemous, bringing Martin here, but could he really be blamed for the accidental lapse in judgment?

Martin stares at him, his eyes bright. “Really? Was this when you first met?” 

“No, we met at my wedding, I told you.” It’s a little uncomfortable if he’s honest, recalling the brittle little details of his marriages to Martin. Of course, he recalls confiding in him with all of this, without worry of retaliation from karma, his wives or god forbid, Martin himself. Now, however, it’s discomforting relaying the details of a marriage forgotten and one on the brink of ruin to a man he cannot quite decide if he’s attracted to. Or if the attraction borders on something a little more dangerous. 

“You did?” Martin asks, his attention on the waiter as they’re brought a basket of bread and olives. “Douglas what’re you drinking?” 

Douglas blinks at him. “What?”

The waiter taps his notepad, smiling tightly at him. “Drinks sir?” 

“Oh, water please. Sparkling. And he’ll have a glass of your finest red.”

“Really?” Martin asks, startled. 

Douglas snorts as he scans the menu. “Only if you’re paying. Just give him the house.”

Martin pulls a face, smiling wryly as the waiter scribbles it down and whisks away. Douglas is finding it difficult to repress the smirk pulling at his lips. 

“The perks of dinning with a teetotal.” He catches the almost guilty flash in Martin’s eye before they focus on the basket. 

“Well,” Martin starts, coughing slightly. “I should probably take full advantage of the opportunity then.” And promptly bites into an olive. 

Douglas watches as the green oval is swallowed between plump lips. “And what, get thoroughly sloshed? Didn’t think it was your style.”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re the one driving.” 

They dither when they order, Martin more so because he is of the indecisive sort and can’t decide between the salmon or the chicken. Douglas instead finds himself less interested in the menu and more so in the weariness he feels at this one moment. Caught between the obligatory thought toward his wife and the man, who is not her, sitting before him. 

It’s not something that should have necessarily made a difference though. And yet for some reason, some unfathomable reason, though he knows that’s not quite true either, he cannot understand why he chooses to categorise both Martin and Helena together. His brain has not made the distinction clearly enough between the two, and he can’t unravel this. Which is shameful, even for him. 

But Martin looks so different, sitting there under this new light. This glow that sparks and flickers brighter with every passing minute they spend together. He’s still the most insufferable prat Douglas has ever had the pleasure to meet, but then as the years pass, he can’t help but, whether intentional or not, understand the man a bit more than anyone would under these circumstances. 

He looks down at his drink, watching the bubbles fizz to the top, the slice of lemon bobbing helplessly. 

“You alright?” 

Martin’s watching him, eyes wide, interested but not worried, which is vaguely reassuring. Douglas doesn’t know if worry is something he can take right now, his dignity smarting with every profane thought he has of Martin’s lips. 

He musters his best smile, though wobbly at the edges. “Peachy. And yourself?”

“I’m ok.” Martin takes a sip of his wine, the deep red liquid sliding sticky down the glass. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You haven’t had it yet,” Douglas points out. Martin smiles sheepishly, and watches as a couple walk in, hand in hand. 

“Still though, thanks. Nice to get out once in a while.” He looks almost bashful, when he peeks back at Douglas, and the man can’t help the warm glow that sputters in his chest. “Though I’m sure you must have had better plans.”

“Martin if I had plans I wouldn’t have asked you to dinner. That was rather the point.”

“Didn’t want a quiet one then?”  
Beside them a table is circled by four women, cackling as they delve into their second bottle of chardonnay. They burst into sudden guffaws and Douglas pauses, irritated as he loses his train of thought. 

“As you might’ve now realised Martin, what with my track record of marriages and the string of beautiful women on my arm at any given moment, I don’t rather like having myself as sole company.” He takes a sip of his drink, watching the women, an ebony haired beauty side eyeing him over her glass before turning back to Martin. “Which is a rather flowery way of saying I don’t like being on my own.”

Martin’s eyes crinkle slightly. “Well, no one does.” And Douglas surprises himself with how much he wants to kiss them. 

“I don’t know, you seem to fare quite well at it.”

“Not by choice,” Martin snorts, grinning. “I live by self induced, though not necessarily desired, celibacy. Though there was that time Arthur tried to set me up on a date. But other than that...” He holds his hands up, shrugging lightly, though Douglas can see the weight in his shoulders. They tremble when he moves, hands carefully steady, as if controlled and he realises belatedly what perilous territory they’re dancing on. 

Any wise man would decide it best course of action to change the subject. Douglas, on the other hand, decides he’s much too curious about the state of Martin’s love life to let an opportunity like this go, and proceeds to take full advantage of it. 

“Oh a date?” he drawls smoothly. “Pray tell what lovely lady did Arthur decide to pair you off with then?”

There’s a flush of pink in Martin’s cheeks that doesn’t go unnoticed and Douglas feels a twinge in his gut. “Well... it wasn’t a lady.”

It takes a surprisingly small amount of effort to keep impassive, hiding the slight twitch in his smirk with his glass. “Ah. So you are gay then.”

“Well... yes. But that’s not the point. The point is that we need to really worry about how intuitive Arthur can be. Into the wrong hands and there’s no telling what could happen.” 

“I think you’re confusing Arthur with someone who could quite genuinely be villainous.”

Their food arrives before Martin can reply, and they soon tuck in after the waiter leaves, peace descending between them. Beneath the table, Douglas feels a brief nudge against his foot and looks up. Martin doesn’t notice though, forking up his salmon, cheeks ruddy from the alcohol. 

Martin pauses, eyes flittering up briefly, mouth half open rather awkwardly as his hand halts midair. “Everything alright?”

It’s then Douglas realises he’s staring. And perhaps not as stealthily as he assumes. 

They watch each other, caught between an ineffable bout of speechlessness, and reserved shame. And yet beneath the table his foot doesn’t move, Martin’s that is, as Douglas finds his pressing forward with a gentle nudge. 

“No,” he starts somewhat softly before clearing his throat. “I’m fine.” 

Martin smiles. Just a brief twitch of his lips, but enough. “Good.”

And they stay like that for the rest of the evening, in comfort. 

****  
He reaches home later than he expects, time witling away with every prolonged moment he finds himself in Martin’s company. Eventually however, they depart ways, Douglas watching the man stroll up to his shoddy excuse for a home before turning away and leaving. The night still holds firm though, and he finds himself almost content as he pulls up into his drive, the tarmac crunching under tyres, the faint sound of Radio 4 drowned out by his humming. 

The gentle giddiness in his chest doesn’t dissipate as he flicks the hallway light on, or as he throws his keys onto the small table by the door. He kicks his shoes off and hangs his coat up, his belly full of good food and mind satisfied with the outcome of dinner. Douglas, whether or not it was something worth admitting to anyone but himself, could honestly say that he had enjoyed his time with Martin, and that the evening was rather lovely indeed. 

“Dougie? Is that you darling?”

He halts, mid-step, the slight spark in his chest flittering down to a mere burn. The guilty edge that smarted earlier cut again, and he felt exasperated. 

“Helena,” Douglas starts, walking into the living room to see his darling wife sprawled across the sofa, heels tossed onto the hardwood floor, her satin of her dress crushed against her thighs. One elegant hand cradles the remote, flickering through what appears to be the catch ups of the wishy washy excuses for day time TV she adores. “I thought you were out.”

Helena doesn’t take her eyes off the screen, reaching back for her glass of white. Douglas leans over and hands it to her, placing a kiss on her head as he does so. 

“Had to cut it short, Miranda fell ill so she went home,” she muses, her legs curling in, an invitation to sit. 

“Oh.” Douglas waits where he is, pondering the scene and wondering if it was not just worth going to bed instead. “Is she alright?” 

Helena looks up at him. “She’s fine. Come sit, I’m cold.” 

He dawdles for a moment, before complying, welcoming her legs atop his lap and skating a hand across the supple skin of her calf. Helena makes a soft noise, a slight purr as he kneads at the muscles gently and Douglas can feel that dusty thread of desire twanging again for his loved wife. 

“Better?” he rumbles, placing a warm kiss at her knee. She chuckles, though he can’t be sure if it’s necessarily directed at him, or rather Jeremy Kyle. Douglas grimaces at this, lips tugging in wry amusement. 

“Was it really that bad? That you’ve now resorted to Jezza?” 

Helena squints, eyes wrinkling in the corners as she does so. Douglas can suddenly remember a time he kissed those lines away, his wife giggling and charming in his arms. And it was warm and lovely, back when domestic bliss was a fanciful reality rather than the insipid routine they make it now. 

In some sense, he misses it. He longs for it, craves the quiet elation he feels when someone whispers _I love you_ against his neck. 

He still has it though, with Helena. He thinks. 

He looks at her, mapping out her beautiful hair as it frays from her bun and across her face, her sweet neck and slight hands. And he’s suddenly consumed by how much he loves her, how many times he grasped those fingers and smelt that neck. He can’t gauge though how much of it is genuine feeling, and how much is longing for that rose-tinted sense of nostalgia. 

Helena looks at him fondly and pokes his arm with her toe. “No, it wasn’t bad, I can’t complain. What about you? What did you get up to, I thought you were staying in.”

“I had dinner with Martin.”

Helena raises an eyebrow. “Martin?”

“And Carolyn and Arthur.” 

“Oh.” She looks interested, surprised most likely by Douglas’ sudden inclination for social interaction. “Did you have a nice time?”

There’s a pause, nothing overtly apparent as his eyes wander over to Jeremy. Just enough to give him a moment’s thought. He sees Martin again, sitting opposite him, pleasantly dazed with warm food and good wine. He can feel his foot again, against his, the gleam in his eyes as he watches him almost sheepishly. 

“Yes,” he starts, hand smoothing over her leg reassuringly. “I did surprisingly.”

She snorts lightly, a snuffling little noise that makes her nose crinkle. “This is nice though...”

Douglas watches as she shuffles up, tucking her legs underneath as she reaches over and wraps her arms around his neck. They kiss, slow and decadent, his hand cupping the back of her head and pulling her down. 

“Hmm... very nice,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss on the side of her neck. “You are far too lovely my dear.”

Helena laughs. “It’s nice to know I still have your attention.” She kisses him once more. “Right, I’m going to bed. Feel free to join me.” She slides off the sofa and grabs her heels, and he can hear the faint creek of floorboards as she heads upstairs. 

Jeremy’s still ranting, and Douglas watches half heartedly as he tears into another man, the cocky arch in his smile never faulting. He wonders why he lied to Helena, about dinner, and finds himself at loss, something he doesn’t warrant very often. 

Perhaps it was Martin’s company that did it, made his brain stutter for thought when Helena asked. Because in a way, Douglas didn’t want to divulge the details to his beloved wife. It was something he wanted to keep for himself, to ponder on when he had a spare moment. 

That look in Martin’s eyes when he caught him staring, half thoughtful, half aching. 

_Everything alright?_

He looks at Jeremy again and sees the man screaming _adulterer._

Douglas closes his eyes and leans back, sighing at the ceiling. He tries to recall the feeling of Helena kissing him and when he does, all he sees is Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it and once again, I'm so sorry it's slow. Also to clear things up, The Jeremy Kyle show is a day time TV talk show that's so bad it's almost good. Jeremy Kyle takes it upon himself to go on a ranty tirade and sort the problems of the masses. It's a bit of a guilty pleasure. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update. Have an extra long chapter to make up for it! <3 Also I've buggered the time line up a bit without realising. Douglas knows Martin runs a removal buisness, yet I've planned this before Limerick. So... we'll just keep it like that! Sorry!
> 
> Betaed by the amazing Arianedevere. A star she is! <333

Of course, things don’t change, though they make no move toward progress either, something Douglas discovers to no avail or small amount of frustration. As the days draw on, he starts to feel the first clinches of ailment within their marriage, feeling almost trapped within the idea of investing so much attention on a wife who no longer seems interested, let alone loving. He finds himself catching that almost demure look Martin wears with such ease and commits it to mind, finding himself surprisingly sceptical with the idea of Martin simpering decorously at him. It doesn’t sit well in his gut. 

Something feels forced, Douglas ponders, when he allows himself a moment of languor, feeling indulgent as he toes his shoes off and lazes back on the sofa, stretching out and kneading at his steadily increasing paunch with the back of his knuckles. Something seems deliberately strained, pulled taut with such effort and he can’t quite figure out whether it’s between him and Helena, or him and Martin. 

Helena sounded more convincing. He replays it in his head and confirms that yes, there was a great deal of tension between the two, enforced pleasantries as they eat together, as they sit side by side on the sofa or make love. He misses the feeling of being wanted by such a beauty, but then, when he does return home and hears her heels click-click against the floorboards, something hardens deep within his chest and he chokes on the first flickers of resentment. 

Martin on the other hand is something infinitely thornier. He considers the pretence of professionalism, the mildly affable joshing while they refuse to acknowledge the kindling attraction swelling between them like an unwanted growth. It’s irritating at best, seeing the man so ineptly responsible for whatever it is that catches Douglas so- his bumbling speeches and pretentious sense of entitlement, however fantastical it may be.

It’s been fine in its hilarity; the idea that Douglas can exploit Martin’s tactless nature for his own entertainment comforting. However, finding himself reassessing the barb in a comment, or resisting the urge to steal a glance Martin’s way is new. Unsettling at most. 

And so he lies on the sofa, fingers drumming on the cushy flab of his stomach, pondering this perplexing conundrum. The house is silent, and he can just about hear the faint hum of the filter in the fish tank, the fluorescent bulb glowing eerily in its dark little corner. He prods at his belly, running a finger underneath the leather belt that cuts into his skin, savouring the quick relief before letting it snap back in place. Helena will be out for the most part of the night, on yet another endeavour with the tai-chi girls, channelling that sought after clarity into an amplified, drunken gossip that will leave her stumbling indoors and onto the bed like a flattened starfish. 

With that in mind, justification aside, he shucks his trousers and belt, tossing them aside with a flick of his hand and settles back onto the sofa with a sigh. 

He is dozing when he hears the lock rattle, a sharp gust nipping at his nose when the door swings open and Helena stumbles in, giddy. He doesn’t move, feeling strangely disconnected from himself, his mind above in a place far beyond the heavy baggage of his body. He’s aware of course, and yet he cannot even fathom the movement in his fingers, pleasantly dazed by the faint drone of being able to do sod all. He sinks into the sofa until he’s certain there’s a perfectly middle aged shape of a man too portly and too lusciously naive about his wife, permanently ingrained into the leather like a second skin. 

Brian Cox is on the telly, gushing eloquent drivel on stars and planetary alignments and Douglas finds himself unsurprisingly zoning out, listening rather to the scratching of Helena’s heels against the hardwood as she skids into the living room, tossing her coat with little ceremony onto the back of the sofa. He catches the faint whiff of cigarettes, the smoky, chard scent clawing at the back of his throat like a kiss of nicotine and he wonders just when she took the habit up again. 

“Oh.” A sigh. “He has the most wonderful eyes. Aren’t they lovely?” The fridge door opens and the bottle of sauvignon Douglas purchased a few days ago is extracted. He can almost feel the cold press of glass against his skin and turns his head, peering at his wife. 

“And what’s wrong with mine?” he says, teasingly scornful. “I’ve had people serenade them. Sonnets dedicated to my abundant pools of chocolate.” 

Helena snorts, nose scrunching as she giggles. “Abundant _what?_ ”

“Well,” Douglas quips smoothly. “I never said they were good sonnets. Nevertheless, you positively _simmered_ when we first met. I’m sure Brian here could only muster a measly bubble.” 

Helena sniggers, one hand gripping the wine bottle and glass, the other fumbling with the strap of her shoe. He watches, amused by the way she wobbles as her fingers stumble over the small buckle, her heel quivering with the strain and he eventually gives in, reaching over and snagging one arm around her waist, dragging her forward and onto him in one perfectly timed movement. 

She balks, catching the glass in time as Douglas settles her next to him, sprawled inelegantly on the sofa, her feet in his lap. 

“There. Much better.” He leans and presses a kiss on her ankle, undoing the buckle with gentle precision before setting the shoe on the floor and proceeding with the other. Helena’s polished toes wiggle as she twists off the plastic covering of the bottle and pours herself a glass, and Douglas covers them, rubbing some warmth into her chilly feet. 

Helena hums, eyeing Douglas’ bare legs. “Enjoyed yourself today did we?” There’s a wicked gleam in her eye, devilishly naughty, and he can glimpse a time when they were first like this and in love. 

He smirks, lips quirking as he runs a hand up her leg. “Yes, but not in the way you’re so naughtily implying.” He presses a kiss to her foot, lips sliding up her leg softly. “Hmm... She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies.”

“Hm? Are you serenading me Doug?” She’s smiling against her glass, amused. 

“Oh yes.” He kisses her knee. “And all that’s best of dark and bright, meets in her aspect and her eyes.” A hand thumbs her hip from inside her dress, skating over the soft satin of her knickers and she squirms under his ministrations. Feeling suddenly confident with his efforts, he shifts around slightly, craning down to kiss up her thigh until he’s growling against her hip, ticking the underside of her foot. Helena laughs and kicks the foot up, resting against his shoulder as he slips his head beneath her dress and nips at the satin edge of her underwear. 

“God, you’re so ridiculous sometimes!” she laughs, kneading her foot against the ball of his shoulder. “I don’t think you realise how daft you look right now.” 

Douglas nips at silky skin on the inside of her thigh, thumbing her clit gently over satin. Helena hums in appreciation, her foot kneading in circles on his shoulder blade. She giggles again, murmuring nonsense before Douglas finds himself cramping in the unorthodox position and retreats, red faced and surprisingly flustered. He plucks the glass from her fingers and places it down on the floor, leaning forward to capture her lips in a hungry, succulent kiss. Helena tastes delectable. He licks the wine from her mouth, the sharp tang sparking that heady part of him that wants to ravish her right here and now. His hands grasp her slight waist, and she moans softly when he deepens the kiss further, seeking out that lingering burn of tobacco. 

“Hmm...” he rumbles when they break apart, nosing down her neck. “God you taste divine. I love kissing you when you’re drunk.”

Helena snorts. “Taking advantage are we?”

“Oh perish the thought mon amour, I’d never do something so heinous.” He looks at her, teasing. “I’m actually rather hurt that you’d think so callously of me.” 

Helena looks unfazed. “Oh?”

Douglas nods. “There’s no art to it, no slow seduction. I’d much rather have you here melting in my arms than anything less.” He skates his fingertips over her arms. “Of course that’s too much to ask sometimes.”

“Always a charmer,” Helena groans, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “It’s going to take more than pretty words to get me into bed now though.”

“After four years you think I don’t know that?” Douglas mutters, mouthing at her shoulder. “Though I recall it working perfectly when we first met.”

“Pity shag.” She yawns, arms tightening over his shoulders in a hug. “You were so adorable back then. With the flowers and impromptu tours of your plane. Ah the romance of flying!” She giggles and kicks her legs up and Douglas feels his thighs cramp. “Oh Captain my captain!”

“God, you really are drunk aren’t you?” He leans up on his forearms, amused at Helena’s rambles. “And I recall a time you screaming that, only not on a sofa, and certainly far less reserved.” He leans in for another kiss, toothy and wonky as Helena reciprocates awkwardly, crushing his bottom lip between her teeth. 

She leans up on her elbows, disorientated. “Where’d my glass go?”

Douglas thumbs at his lip. “I think you’ve had quite enough for today. Lord only knows what you’re going to feel in the morning.” He refuses to acknowledge the small pleasure he feels with that fact. 

Helena glares at him. “You’re awful.” The words lack gumption and bite, but he can see the half truth in her eyes. 

“And you taste like an ashtray.”

“I do not!” she splutters, indignant. Douglas’ lips crook into a smirk. 

“Oh you most certainly do. If you were planning on hiding your little habit again you’re doing a fine job of it.”

“I’m telling you,” she says, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. “I haven’t smoked in years. You must be having a stroke, burnt toast and oranges.”

Douglas’ smirk drops. “I’m not _that_ old.” 

She yawns again, jaw clicking, eyes sliding shut as her hair fans out on the cushions. “No of course not.” A hand reaches up, lazily stroking through his hair. “You’re not old and I don’t smoke.”

“You do though,” he remarks, easing her legs down from their cramped position on his shoulders. Helena stirs slightly, slowly drifting and Douglas can’t have that, not when they’ve made it this far. “It’s quite blatant.”

“Not me Dougie,” Helena murmurs, arm outstretched above her head. “Daft man.” 

He’s not sure if it was meant in jest or with genuine feeling, he can never tell when she’s this far gone, hovering on the borders of sleep and intoxication. But they were doing so well, the embers of arousal peaking weakly, crying for attention. They can’t very well have sex if she’s asleep though. Again. 

Something in him panics. 

“ _Helena_ ,” he croons, nuzzling her neck. “Come on, don’t go to sleep, I don’t want to have to carry you to bed again. Helena?”

She snores in response and he is done. 

His legs creak as he clambers off the sofa, back popping, and he glares at the rather deserving still of Brian Cox before the credits roll around. His erection has flagged somewhat, resigned rather than disappointed with their endeavours, but at this age, Douglas finds himself still with the capacity to surprise himself with his _enthusiasm_. Not at this point however, three or four weeks with misinterpreted hints, perfunctory sex and the odd trite wank leaving a somewhat discomforted edge of acquiescence in his ability to gain her attention. 

Douglas watches Helena snore, the opened bottle of wine sitting on the coffee table, barely touched. What a waste. He picks it up and heads into the kitchen, upending it into the sink before leaving the bottle on the counter and heading to the bedroom. 

He contemplates masturbation as he sprawls on the bed rather inelegantly, hair mussed, shirt creased, toes wriggling in his socks as he eyes the abating tent in his boxers. He isn’t sure if he’s considering the idea of taking care of his little problem out of genuine arousal, or sheer spite toward both Helena and his lethargic body. In the end, he doesn’t suppose it matters, he’s tugging on himself regardless, seeking out, if not a response to his sexual psyche, then at least some reprieve for his body, which pleads both exhaustion and pity. 

His hand works furiously, brows furrowed as he opens his mind to anything and everything, from Helena and the silky skin on the inside of her thigh, to Professor Cox. From the rather delightful chicken tagine he had the pleasure of devouring the other day, to GERTI’s low rumble. And finally, rather inevitably, to Martin, dear Martin who’s looking at him right now with a mixture of mild pique and startled awe. 

Douglas’ eyes snap open after a moment, grimacing as he tries to conjure an image of Martin looking, if not sultry, then at least remotely beguiling. And the best he can do is Martin smiling companionably at him from across the table as they eat, their fingers brushing just so when they reach for the napkins. 

His mind blanks white when he comes, breathless and sharp, his face burning. A few scrunched tissues later and he’s moderately presentable, any evidence of his self abuse lying to waste in the bathroom bin. And it’s embarrassing to say the least, having a desperately _gay_ wank to the image of his co-pilot while his wife lies snoring on the living room sofa. But then, he thinks as he pulls the covers over himself and flips his heavy body onto his side, it feels no different from any other day. 

And that’s perhaps the most worrying bit of all. 

****

When he wakes, he finds himself blinking mournfully down at the crumpled bed sheet, his face squashed against his ruffled pillow. The bed feels far too large, engulfing as he sprawls out on his front, his body feeling heavy, arms lethargic as they swipe at the alarm. Another day again, and he eventually forces himself to rise, stumbling around the room for his dressing gown and clothes. 

The morning routine proceeds as usual, toilet, shower, teeth, clothes and he finds himself sluggish as he slips into the mundane ritual he’s entertained for years. Usually it’s a finely choreographed routine both he and Helena have adapted, dancing around each other as they prepare for the day ahead. Today however he’s alone, all the time in the world and he savours it, faintly amused by the image Helena must portray drooling on the sofa, dead to the world. That and the hangover she’s going to inevitably wake to. Douglas’ temples throb in sympathy and he’s only too glad to have cleared the experience entirely from his repertoire. 

He isn’t ashamed to admit he’s a tad smug when he sees her, half hanging on the sofa, hair mussed, lipstick smeared. _And what a sight that is._

He heads into the kitchen and switches the coffee machine on. 

“Jesus bloody-”

“Oh sorry dear, did I wake you?” The machine comes to a thunderous halt, clanging as it filters the dark liquid through and Helena splutters, disorientated, clutching her forehead as she leans against the sofa. 

Douglas takes his mug and leans against the door frame adjoining the living room, raising it. “Coffee?”

“Oh fuck off Douglas,” she snaps, angry.

“Oh? So you don’t want coffee then. Funny, I always thought it worked wonders for those pesky hangovers.”

“No.” Helena shakes her head, laughing. “No, no, no -what I need is for you to just...shush with your smarmy ‘I can do no wrong’ attitude and go to work.” Her voice quivers and Douglas wonders briefly just how much she consumed last night, and if it’s at all wise prodding her like this. They are evidently touchy, both sore by the preceding events but it doesn’t warrant even the barest hint of sympathy from either party.

Douglas bristles. “No,” he starts, agitated. “What you needed was perhaps a bit of hindsight. Did you really think ingesting that much wine would be good for your system, or barring that, the morning after?”

Helena blinks at him, lost. “What?” She groans impatiently and waves him off. “Why are we even arguing about this? What do you want?”

Douglas cocks an eyebrow. “Nothing.”

“Then?”

“Then what?”

“What are you doing? Go to work.” She flops onto the sofa, clawing for one of the cushions strewn across the floor, and buries her head in it. “Go captain something.”

Without meaning to, he glances at the epaulettes on his arm. “Like the kettle? Terribly noisy devices though, and the acoustics in here are really quite remarkable.” He taps his shoe against the floor, something he’d usually come to regret after Helena so stealthily disclosed how much she paid for them. On his card. Nevertheless, small sacrifices. “Should we test it?”

“Douglas,” Helena warns. “Don’t. I don’t understand why you’re in such a tizzy about this but I’m not about to sit here and take it.” She rubs her eyes and rises, defiant. “You’re being childish and hypocritical.”

“Hypocritical?” he barks. “You can’t be serious? I’m assuming you can back that up.”

“I’m not about to take advice on my drinking from an alcoholic,” Helena bites, picking the cushions up and flinging them onto the sofa. “I don’t know what your problem is but I’m going to have a shower and then go to bed. If you’re insistent on having a strop then go do it somewhere else with someone who gives a bloody damn.” 

He isn’t quite sure what happens, if it was not just an aggravated response toward the frustration of dealing with Helena like this, and the rush of a liberated argument. Or perhaps something more cynical is rearing its bitter head, sniffing nastily at her, dearest Helena who glares tiredly at him, the lines around her eyes dark with well deserved fatigue. How they got like this, Douglas doesn’t know and something inside him doesn’t want to question it. But at that moment something snaps, something fragile and worn and it’s then Douglas realises it’s not worth refuting the fact that he’s having an awful day.

“Because you certainly don’t,” Douglas replies smoothly, looking at anywhere except her. 

There’s a moment of reflection as the insinuation sinks in and he can almost feel the cogs whirl in Helena’s head as she turns to him, her shoulders tight. He’s looking at his coffee, he doesn’t need to look up to know her eyes are burning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head and turns away, emptying his mug into the sink and slamming it down on the counter. “I’m going to work.” He collects his jacket and coat, keys jangling in his pocket.

“Right, come home when you’re in a better mood.”

The door slams as he leaves. 

****

The Lexus sputters when he crunches over tarmac, pulling it into park and listening to the crack as he sets the handbrake. His fingers flex around the steering wheel and it takes one, two breaths until he’s at least reasonably calm.

Martin’s loitering outside the portakabin, looking almost as riled as Douglas is, shoulders hunched as he listens to the tinny voice on his phone. His brows are furrowed, he’s worrying his lip anxiously and he almost misses Douglas’ approach. He starts and gives the man a quick, ineffective smile before turning away, whispering furiously into the small device clutched to his ear. 

Douglas nods and barrels on, shutting himself firmly within the portakabin and sighing. He catches Arthur, nose deep within a book, nibbling contently on a Twix. He looks up, smiling. 

“Morning Douglas, how are you?”

“Fine thank you Arthur,” he replies, clipped. “What’s wrong with our dutiful captain?”

“Martin?” Arthur rises, heading to the counter and flicking the kettle on, one hand clutching his novel. “Not sure, he’s on the phone I think.”

Douglas rolls his eyes. “Well I knew that much, I did just walk past him.”

“Oh. Well then. Tea, coffee, coffee, tea?” He rummages through the containers, sniffing the teabags cautiously. “I think Herc left some of his herbal stuff, if you prefer? Though I did try the lemon one, it was like drinking warm washing up liquid!”

Douglas curls his lip in disgust. “I think I’ll stick to the Tesco value coffee flavoured woodchips Carolyn so wonderfully treats us with.”

Arthur peeks his head up, setting the book down. “See, if you knew mum hid the Douwe Egberts in her office you wouldn’t be-” He pauses, nose wrinkling as his cheeks flush scarlet. “Er, rather...I meant...I wasn’t supposed to tell you that...”

“We’ll keep it our little secret then.” Douglas flops onto the sofa, reclining his head back. “What’re you reading?”

Arthur pours the water into the mugs. “Dostoyevsky.” 

Douglas whips his head around, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. “Excuse me?”

“Nah, I’m only joking,” Arthur snickers. “Herc said you’d react that way if I said it. It took ages trying to learn how to pronounce it! I was getting all tongue tied.” He passes over the coffee, taking up his tea and seats himself next to Douglas, book between his teeth. 

“Herc again,” Douglas snipes, affecting disdain. His eyebrow arches as he blows his coffee, watching the steam curl into the air in wispy puffs, obscuring the faint glimpse of Martin he has through the window. “The man truly is revolting.”

“Aw well he’s not that bad,” Arthur objects, flicking through the battered novel in his hand. “He’s quite nice once you get to know him.”

“I do know him,” Douglas disputes. “Only too well!” He pauses, pondering the brief reminiscence of both men in their heyday. Idealistic and youthful, regarding each other with wolfish grins and the faint stirs of something wonderfully salacious. They put it down to rivalry, perhaps more for convenience than anything else, and it suits them fine when he considers it. He thinks of them now, and wonders what an illicit affair would’ve been like and can’t see anything but Carolyn using him as a dartboard. He smiles slightly. “Though perhaps not as well as your mother.”

Arthur snorts. “That’s not even the half of it. You should’ve seen it when I accidently caught them in the bath together-”

“Oh Arthur please!” He shakes his head, trying to rid the image of Carolyn and Herc frolicking amongst bubbles, and takes a gulp of his near scalding coffee, burning his tongue. “There’s a time and place for that and it’s never.”

“Sorry Douglas.” He barely looks repentant though, grinning as he dives back into his book, tea balanced on his knee. Douglas has the vaguest thought of upending it on his lap in reprisal but pushes the thought aside, attention caught as the door swings open and Martin stomps in. He’s flustered, cheeks splotchy, his hair bedraggled as his hand combs through it fretfully. 

“Alright Skip?” Arthur hums, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth as he thumbs his book. “You look a bit...” 

“Disturbed,” Douglas finishes blithely. “Everything tickety boo?” 

Martin grunts, kicking one of the plastic chairs out from beneath the desk and throwing himself on it, the legs creaking as he leans over to grab his log book. 

“So I will assume otherwise then.” Douglas turns away, nonplussed by the lack of reaction, without the energy or interest to bother quizzing the man. He picks up Arthur’s book, glancing idly at the cover. “A Game of Thrones. Really Arthur?”

“It’s good! Though I’m not very far in.”

“I don’t know why I’m surprised to be honest, what with that fiasco with Hester McCauley. You’re into all that aren’t you?” His lip curls in fond amusement. “Dragons and scantily clad princesses.”

“Hmm...” Arthur hums happily. “It’s very good though, Herc lent it to me.”

Douglas groans. “Him again. I should’ve known. Are you sure you’re not secretly in love with him? That’d prove both disastrous and strangely Freudian.” He snorts. “I’d love to see your mother’s reaction.”

Arthur frowns, nose wrinkling. “ _I’m_ not in love with him, Martin is.”

Martin rears his head, blinking owlishly. “Hmm?”

“Douglas thinks I’m in love with Herc,” Arthur states as a matter of fact, and rises to fix the captain a coffee. 

“Herc?” Martin echoes, considering the thought. “Oh yes, he’s great.”

“He’s not _that_ great!” Douglas snaps, flushing. “If anything, he’s mildly tolerable.” 

“No, you’re mildly tolerable,” Martin says, head bowed as he scrawls quickly. “Herc’s positively scintillating in comparison.”

Douglas feels his teeth grind, an untenable spark of jealousy quaking through his system. He will never admit it, preferring a bloody death to openly disclosing the fact that Herc has the ability to ignite that jealous streak within him, the green eyed monster rearing its ugly head and scowling furiously at Martin, who _knew_ , damn him, how to push his buttons. He cools his composure, affecting calm and smirks at the man. “Awfully big word, Martin.”

“Oh are you surprised? That your Captain does in fact have some semblance of intelligence?”

“I let you fly a plane,” Douglas replies, riled slightly by Martin’s sour mood. “An _aeroplane_ , with me next to you almost every other day. Granted you are a complete idiot at the best of times but you’re not inept, otherwise why on earth would I risk it?”

Martin doesn’t look up, having the temerity to shrug off the thinly veiled compliment Douglas has casually passed and he feels something boil viciously in his gut, the earlier squabble with Helena triggering that irritated flame in his chest. He turns away, ignoring the man and seizes Arthur’s book, flipping the pages roughly and hoping for all their sakes the day ends quickly. 

They ignore each other stubbornly, reciting procedures in clipped tones as they jet off for Dusseldorf. Martin stares resolutely ahead, purple blotches pulling heavily at his eyes, hair lank as it mattes down against his forehead. Douglas barely notices it however, physical appearances way beyond his comprehension when he’s nursing such a black mood, feeling the frustration bubbling through his system like thick tar. It latches onto everything, vicious and infecting and soon the tension between them is suffocating. Arthur attempts to wade through it, offering weak coffee and stale biscuits in compensation before even he recognises a lost cause and busies himself in the galley. 

Douglas watches the sky curdle pink, evening just touching in. He glances at Martin, the man picking at a spot of dry skin on the underside of his chin, before steeling himself, attempting to, if not cut through the smoggy hush, then at least relieve the pressure slightly. 

“Plans for the weekend then?” 

Martin makes no move to show he’s heard him, lost to the world as he scratches at his neck. Douglas’s fingers tighten around the yoke. 

“Martin.”

“Hm. What?” He juts his head slightly to the side, acknowledging finally. “Yes, sorry I missed that.”

“In your own little world,” Douglas quips, although with more bite than he originally intends. “Busy weekend ahead?”

Martin looks befuddled. “Why?” he asks, cagey. 

“Just making polite conversation.”

“Right. Well, you don’t need to.”

Douglas feels his hackles rise, and sucks on his teeth. “Look, I was only asking. It’s not an interrogation.”

“Right,” Martin repeats, voice faltering. 

“Are you stuck on some sort of loop?” Douglas snaps, whatever propriety he was feigning finally splintering with exasperation. “For someone with a semblance of intelligence, as you so eloquently put, you’re finding it rather hard stringing a few words together. Granted you’re not the most articulate even on a good day but this is pushing it even for you. What’s wrong?”

Martin bristles, Douglas can see the frisson of tension quiver through his spine. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Douglas scoffs. “Oh please, you’ve been sour since you got here-”

“I haven’t actually, not that you’d know, I was here first.”

“What difference does it bloody make?”

“I don’t know,” Martin replies, agitated, his voice climbing an octave. “You’re the one asking!”

Douglas rubs at his eyebrows, looking out over the console as his agitation tempers down. “Alright, forget I said anything.” If Martin wants to be reticent toward the smallest of gestures then so be it, it’s not in Douglas’ nature to care. The drab episode of philanthropy withers away as quickly as it comes and he can’t help but wish it well in death, feeling ultimately let down by Martin’s company, or rather lack of. He isn’t entirely sure if it fares better than Helena’s though, or even if it is worth the comparison. 

Martin’s face pinches when Douglas slides a glance over, suspiciously dour, though it comes as little surprise. He straightens, eyebrows knitting together in a tiny frown as he gears himself for what Douglas can only guess as one of his desperate little blusters. 

“Not that you’d care,” Martin starts, chin jutting out, every word punctuated firmly. “But I’m under a lot of stress at the moment.” Something unravels in his expression, as all the tightly wound apprehension disappears for one fleeting moment. His spine physically sags, shoulders heaving downward with a depressed shudder and Douglas can fancy himself catching the last flicker of pride snuffing out in the dull sea green eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed, my lifestyle isn’t as lavish as some.”

Whether or not Martin means it with any personal affect against him, Douglas doesn’t know, nor is he in any position to care. Despite how hollow Martin sounds, it doesn’t batter down the heat of irritation, the muted fury Douglas suddenly feels with the remark against his standard of living. His hackles rise, and he feels himself gearing up for retaliation, the sharp tang of bitterness sour in his mouth. 

“Of course not,” Douglas starts after a pregnant pause. “To live such an abundant lifestyle, you’d need to be able to afford it, which you can’t quite blatantly, due to your own bull-headed nature.” 

He stops briefly, fingers tightening around the yoke as a thread of a smirk tugs at his lips. “And shockingly, as you are somehow a _qualified_ pilot, and I can’t stress the word ‘somehow’ quite enough, your lack of capability as said pilot only seems to hinder your ability to gain such a lavish lifestyle, as you expressed so earnestly.”

Martin looks strangled, and opens his mouth to respond before Douglas cuts him off. “So don’t sit there and judge me,” he snaps, finally careening off onto ground a little less steady and more concave, “for being good at a profession we both chose. It’s pathetic.”

Douglas finally stops, feeling a swelling of pride as silence settles, muted as the words hit home well enough to smart deep. He glances over, watching Martin gape slightly, lips trembling as they snap shut, fingers fidgeting over the console. He expects to feel some sort of triumphant glee at watching the man falter but instead, and rather surprisingly, he feels vacant. Two hectic, ruddy splotches flush across Martin’s cheeks, his complexion wan. Identical violet smudges pull at his eyes and his lip is worried between white teeth. Douglas finally sees the exhaustion and his comments, however dauntless he imagined them, finally sound foolish. 

Martin remains pale, and looks ahead as he coughs out a response. “Fine.”

Douglas falters, his rather misplaced congeniality snuffing out into a bitter vitriol, feeling suddenly tired with emotional backwash. “Fine?”

“Fine.”

He feels at a loss, which is surprising, but welcomes the cessation of conversation. He isn’t sure how much more he can take.

“Good.”

And they barrel on, not quite ignoring each other’s presence, but rather choosing to work around it. And it suits them fine for the remainder of the day, until of course that aching pang in Douglas’ chest stirs. That thumping, choking guilt. But, he finds if he concentrates close enough, he can forget it’s there, and it’ll soon take care of itself. He has after all had time to perfect it. 

****

He arrives home later than he expects, fumbling with his keys as his shoulder strains under the weight of his uselessly rendered overnight bag, tilting to juggle both it and a colourful bouquet of flowers, which crinkle in his grip. Cliché perhaps, but it’s a start. 

The lights are off and when he expects to step into chilly solitude, Helena caught up in whatever endeavour she’s enamoured with at the time, he feels a gust of warmth hit him, the central heating bidding a cheery welcome. 

Helena’s shoes sit beside his in the wooden cabinet by the door, a recent purchase he doesn’t quite remember making. As were most things in the house, either bargained from the decor boutiques down the high street or bought in a flurry of Swedish delight and wonder at the thrifty flat packs from IKEA. He toes his own shoes off, staving off the first few threads of puzzlement as he dumps his bag and pads into the living room. 

Helena sits on the sofa, head tilted against her palm as Panorama bleats on about conspiracies. He expects more from the Beeb, really. The recycled backwash of scandals picked to death, long lived conspiracies of spies and MPs plucking at their last threads banal at best. Though, Douglas thinks as he squints at the telly, half wondering where his glasses are, it fares a far sight better than the hogwash Channel 4 dishes up as news. 

“Dougie?” Helena turns her head, blinking owlishly at him, her hair pinned up in a scraggly bun. Strands tumble across her neck and Douglas finds himself leaning forward, moving to kiss her before he catches himself and steels a hand on the back of the sofa, anchored. 

“You’re home early,” he says finally, after a pause. “Surprisingly.” He looks at her before shifting haltingly, movements jerky, oddly cautious as he presents the bouquet. “For you, m’lady.”

Helena eyes the flowers before she smiles, expression bleeding into something warm. Douglas exhales when she accepts the gift, plucking at the crepe paper blissfully. “They’re beautiful,” she hums, staring at him openly. “I love primroses.” 

“I know.”

Helena’s smile falters a little, wobbling around the edges as she turns to flick Panorama onto something a little less drab. “You always know how to treat a woman.”

He feels that faint kick of nostalgia rear its rosy head before he slides into the kitchen, halting as he sees a pot bubbling away on the stove. He waits a second before approaching, warily peeking at the contents. “Honey,” he starts amicably enough. “Did you cook?”

“Had nothing else to do, I was feeling creative.”

Douglas gives it a cautious sniff, the soupy, bubbly mess simmering gently. “Were you now?” he murmurs before piping up. “What is it?”

“Risotto!”

“You do know you’re supposed to stir it almost constantly.”

“Yes but I thought if I throw in enough water it’ll sort itself out. Beats standing at the stove all night! Thingamabob, oh what’s his name- Ramsey? No it wasn’t Ramsey. Jamie Oliver I think, he said it’ll be fine enough if you leave it.”

“Right.” Douglas’ nose wrinkles when the grey concoction slops off the spoon with a splat. He heads back into the living room, sinking onto the spot beside Helena. “Looks delicious.”

She beams at him. “Thank you baby, it should be done soon.” She’s pale today, face bare, two blotches of colour high on her cheeks. Her naked eyebrows bob when she frowns at the television, lip chewed, eyes puffy. Douglas looks at them, the crinkles in the corners, fatigue lines tugging on her skin and he wants to kiss them. They look just like Martin’s. 

Then a thought occurs, swift in its coming. “Didn’t you have tai-chi?”

“Hm?” She doesn’t even look. 

“Helena? Tai-chi? Or was it tennis?”

“No,” she starts, correcting him softly as she chews on a nail. “Tai-chi.” When she does return his gaze, her eyes are suspiciously glassy. He has to resist the urge to ask if she’s alright, unnerved slightly by this sudden turn in emotion. “He uh...” She pauses, blinking before smiling. “The class was cancelled.” The smile is forced, cracking at the edges as her lips pull taut and he nods in acquiescence. 

More likely, a tiff had occurred between friends; it’s a rare thing seeing Helena this affected by something so inconsequential as a cancelled class. Ashamedly though, Douglas is in no position to either push the subject or question Helena’s gloom, finding the sudden tenderness between them undeniably lovely. A worryingly bald assessment of how disjointed things now appear in their marriage, but he rarely finds himself focusing on the more dour points of the relationship. 

Not when Helena is sighing, leaning on his shoulder like he’s the only thing in the world. 

He cards his fingers through her hair, pressing a dry kiss to her temple. Helena’s teeth click when she snaps off her nail and she turns toward Douglas after a moment, sheepish. “I wanted to apologise. You know-” she nudges her head to the side. “For this morning. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Douglas feels something twist in his stomach, coiling tighter as Helena talks. He watches her mouth move, feeling slightly put off with the heaviness in his chest, a badly timed mimic of his earlier spat with Martin. 

“Me too,” he replies, smiling tightly, the words sugary and heavy as they leave his mouth. “I apologise for the things I said.” 

Helena smiles and leans up for a kiss, one he whole heartedly reciprocates, leaning into the warmth of her lips as she takes his hand and squeezes. 

Douglas thinks about the argument earlier while Helena disappears into the kitchen, thumbing at his lip absentmindedly. The brittleness of their words, the thinly veiled accusation. And then he thinks of Martin, and those heavy bags pulling at his eyes. The terse phone call and the stress pouring off him in waves. 

Douglas recalls the way Martin’s back snapped straight, fingers clinging for anchorage on the yoke as he snapped poisonous words. And he wonders vaguely just who he was supposed to be apologising to. 

He thinks about it for the remainder of the night, when Helena turns the cooker off and scandalously drags him upstairs to bed. And when he rocks into her, Helena clinging to his neck, tactile as ever, thighs squeezing around his waist as she gasps profanities at the ceiling, he thinks about the apologies and pretends desperately and blindly that he’s not thinking about Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! More on it's way soon. <3


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